Raymond Chandler
Finger Man
(1934)

Contents

ONE

I got away from the Grand Jury a little after four, and then sneaked up the
back stairs to Fenweather's office. Fenweather, the D.A., was a man with severe,
chiseled features and the gray temples women love. He played with a pen on his
desk and said: "I think they believed you. They might even indict Manny
Tinnen for the Shannon kill this afternoon. If they do, then is the time you
begin to watch your step."

I rolled a cigarette around in my fingers and finally put it in my mouth.
"Don't put any men on me, Mr. Fenweather. I know the alleys in this town
pretty well, and your men couldn't stay close enough to do me any good."

He looked towards one of the windows. "How well do you know Frank
Dorr?" he asked, with his eyes away from me.

"I know he's a big politico, a fixer you have to see if you want to open
a gambling hell or a bawdy house-or if you want to sell honest merchandise to
the city."

"Right." Fenweather spoke sharply, and brought his head around
towards me. Then he lowered his voice. "Having the goods on Tinnen was a
surprise to a lot of people. If Frank Dorr had an interest in getting rid of
Shannon who was the head of the Board where Dorr's supposed to get his
contracts, it's close enough to make him take chances. And I'm told he and Manny
Tinnen had dealings. I'd sort of keep an eye on him, if I were you."

I grinned. "I'm just one guy," I said. "Frank Dorr covers a
lot of territory. But I'll do what I can."

Fenweather stood up and held his hand across the desk. He said: "I'll be
out of town for a couple of days, I'm leaving tonight, if this indictment comes
through. Be careful-and if anything should happen to go wrong, see Bernie Ohls,
my chief investigator."

I said: "Sure."

We shook hands and I went out past a tired-looking girl who gave me a tired
smile and wound one of her lax curls up on the back of her neck as she looked at
me. I got back to my office soon after four-thirty. I stopped outside the door
of the little reception room for a moment, looking at it. Then I opened it and
went in, and of course there wasn't anybody there.

There was nothing there but an old red davenport, two odd chairs, a bit of
carpet, and a library table with a few old magazines on it. The reception room
was left open for visitors to come in and sit down and wait-if I had any
visitors and they felt like waiting.

I went across and unlocked the door into my private office, lettered
"_Philip Marlowe ... Investigations_."

Lou Harger was sitting on a wooden chair on the side of the desk away from
the window. He had bright yellow gloves clamped on the crook of a cane, a green
snap-brim hat set too far back on his head. Very smooth black hair showed under
the hat and grew too low on the nape of his neck.

"Hello. I've been waiting," he said, and smiled languidly.

"'Lo, Lou. How did you get in here?"

"The door must have been unlocked. Or maybe I had a key that fitted. Do
you mind?"

I went around the desk and sat down in the swivel chair. I put my hat down on
the desk, picked up a bulldog pipe out of an ash tray and began to fill it up.

"It's all right as long as it's you," I said. "I just thought
I had a better lock."

He smiled with his full red lips. He was a very good-looking boy. He said:
"Are you still doing business, or will you spend the next month in a hotel
room drinking liquor with a couple of Headquarters boys?"

"I'm still doing business-if there's any business for me to do."

I lit a pipe, leaned back and stared at his clear olive skin, straight, dark
eyebrows.

He put his cane on top of the desk and clasped his yellow gloves on the
glass. He moved his lips in and out.

"I have a little something for you. Not a hell of a lot. But there's
carfare in it."

I waited.

"I'm making a little play at Las Olindas tonight," he said.
"At Canales' place."

"The white smoke?"

"Uh-huh. I think I'm going to be lucky-and I'd like to have a guy with a
rod."

I took a fresh pack of cigarettes out of a top drawer and slid them across
the desk. Lou picked them up and began to break the pack open.

I said: "What kind of a play?"

He got a cigarette halfway out and stared down at it. There was a little
something in his manner I didn't like.

"I've been closed up for a month now. I wasn't makin' the kind of money
it takes to stay open in this town. The Headquarters boys have been putting the
pressure on since repeal. They have bad dreams when they see themselves trying
to live on their pay."

I said: "It doesn't cost any more to operate here than anywhere else.
And here you pay it all to one organization. That's something."

I didn't say anything. I was way past the age when it's fun to swear at
people you can't hurt. I watched Lou light his cigarette with my desk lighter.
He went on, through a puff of smoke: "It's a laugh, in a way. Canales
bought a new wheel-from some grafters in the sheriffs office. I know Pina,
Canales' head croupier, pretty well. The wheel is one they took away from me.
It's got bugs-and I know the bugs."

"And Canales don't ... That sounds just like Canales," I said.

Lou didn't look at me. "He gets a nice crowd down there," he said.
"He has a small dance floor and a five-piece Mexican band to help the
customers relax. They dance a bit and then go back for another trimming, instead
of going away disgusted."

I said: "What do you do?"

"I guess you might call it a system," he said softly, and looked at
me under his long lashes.

I looked away from him, looked around the room. It had a rust-red carpet,
five green filing cases in a row under an advertising calendar, an old costumer
in the corner, a few walnut chairs, net curtains over the windows. The fringe of
the curtains was dirty from blowing about in the draft. There was a bar of late
sunlight across my desk and it showed up the dust.

"I get it like this," I said. "You think you have that
roulette wheel tamed and you expect to win enough money so that Canales will be
mad at you. You'd like to have some protection along-me. I think it's
screwy."

"It's not screwy at all," Lou said. "Any roulette wheel has a
tendency to work in a certain rhythm. If you know the wheel very well
indeed-"

I smiled and shrugged. "Okey, I wouldn't know about that. I don't know
enough roulette. It sounds to me like you're being a sucker for your own racket,
but I could be wrong. And that's not the point anyway."

"What is?" Lou asked thinly.

"I'm not much stuck on bodyguarding-but maybe that's not the point
either. I take it I'm supposed to think this play is on the level. Suppose I
don't, and walk out on you, and you get in a box? Or suppose I think everything
is aces, but Canales don't agree with me and gets nasty."

"That's why I need a guy with a rod," Lou said, without moving a
muscle except to speak.

I said evenly: "If I'm tough enough for the job-and I didn't know I
was-that still isn't what worries me."

I smiled a little more and watched his yellow gloves moving around on top of
the desk, moving too much. I said slowly: "You're the last guy in the world
to be getting expense money that way just now. I'm the last guy to be standing
behind you while you do it. That's all."

Lou said: "Yeah." He knocked some ash off his cigarette down on the
glass top, bent his head to blow it off. He went on, as if it was a new subject:
"Miss Glenn is going with me. She's a tall redhead, a swell looker. She
used to model. She's nice people in any kind of a spot and she'll keep Canales
from breathing on my neck. So we'll make out. I just thought I'd tell you."

I was silent for a minute, then I said: "You know damn well I just got
through telling the Grand Jury it was Manny Tinnen I saw lean out of that car
and cut the ropes on Art Shannon's wrists after they pushed him on the roadway,
filled with lead."

Lou smiled faintly at me. "That'Il make it easier for the grafters on
the big time; the fellows who take the contracts and don't appear in the
business. They say Shannon was square and kept the Board in line. It was a nasty
bump-off."

I shook my head. I didn't want to talk about that. I said: "Canales has
a noseful of junk a lot of the time. And maybe he doesn't go for redheads."

Lou stood up slowly and lifted his cane off the desk. He stared at the tip of
one yellow finger. He had an almost sleepy expression. Then he moved towards the
door, swinging his cane.

"Well, I'll be seem' you some time," he drawled.

I let him get his hand on the knob before I said: "Don't go away sore,
Lou. I'll drop down to Las Olindas, if you have to have me. But I don't want any
money for it, and for Pete's sake don't pay any more attention to me than you
have to."

He licked his lips softly and didn't quite look at me. "Thanks, keed.
I'll be careful as hell."

He went out then and his yellow glove disappeared around the edge of the
door.

I sat still for about five minutes and then my pipe got too hot. I put it
down, looked at my strap watch, and got up to switch on a small radio in the
corner beyond the end of the desk. When the AC. hum died down the last tinkle of
a chime came out of the horn, then a voice was saying: "KLI now brings you
its regular early evening broadcast of local news releases. An event of
importance this afternoon was the indictment returned late today against Maynard
J. Tinnen by the Grand Jury. Tinnen is a well-known City Hall lobbyist and man
about town. The indictment, a shock to his many friends, was based almost
entirely on the testimony-"

I said I was just getting it over the radio. We talked a short moment and
then he hung up, after saying he had to leave at once to catch a plane.

I leaned back in my chair again and listened to the radio without exactly
hearing it. I was thinking what a damn fool Lou Harger was and that there wasn't
anything I could do to change that.

TWO

It was a good crowd for a Tuesday but nobody was dancing. Around ten o'clock
the little five-piece band got tired of messing around with a rhumba that nobody
was paying any attention to. The marimba player dropped his sticks and reached
under his chair for a glass. The rest of the boys lit cigarettes and just sat
there looking bored.

I leaned sidewise against the bar, which was on the same side of the room as
the orchestra stand. I was turning a small glass of tequila around on the top of
the bar. All the business was at the center one of the three roulette tables.

The bartender leaned beside me, on his side of the bar.

"The flame-top gal must be pickin' them," he said.

I nodded without looking at him. "She's playing with fistfuls now,"
I said. "Not even counting it."

The red-haired girl was tall. I could see the burnished copper of her hair
between the heads of the people behind her. I could see Lou Harger's sleek head
beside hers. Everybody seemed to be playing standing up.

"You don't play?" the bartender asked me.

"Not on Tuesdays. I had some trouble on a Tuesday once."

"Yeah? Do you like that stuff straight, or could I smooth it out for
you?"

"Smooth it out with what?" I said. "You got a wood rasp
handy?"

He grinned. I drank a little more of the tequila and made a face.

"Did anybody invent this stuff on purpose?"

"I wouldn't know, mister."

"What's the limit over there?"

"I wouldn't know that either. How the boss feels, I guess."

The roulette tables were in a row near the far wall. A low railing of gilt
metal joined their ends and the players were outside the railing.

Some kind of a confused wrangle started at the center table. Half a dozen
people at the two end tables grabbed their chips up and moved across.

Then a clear, very polite voice, with a slightly foreign accent, spoke out:
"If you will just be patient, madame ... Mr. Canales will be here in a
minute."

I went across, squeezed near the railing. Two croupiers stood near me with
their heads together and their eyes looking sidewise. One moved a rake slowly
back and forth beside the idle wheel. They were staring at the red-haired girl.

She wore a high-cut black evening gown. She had fine white shoulders, was
something less than beautiful and more than pretty. She was leaning on the edge
of the table, in front of the wheel. Her long eyelashes were twitching. There
was a big pile of money and chips in front of her.

She spoke monotonously, as if she had said the same thing several times
already.

"Get busy and spin that wheel! You take it away fast enough, but you
don't like to dish it out."

The croupier in charge smiled a cold, even smile. He was tall, dark,
disinterested: "The table can't cover your bet," he said with calm
precision. "Mr. Canales, perhaps-" He shrugged neat shoulders.

Lou Harger licked his lips beside her, put a hand on her arm, stared at the
pile of money with hot eyes. He said gently: "Wait for Canales . . ."

"To hell with Canales! I'm hot-and I want to stay that way."

A door opened at the end of the tables and a very slight, very pale man came
into the room. He had straight, lusterless black hair, a high bony forehead,
flat, impenetrable eyes. He had a thin mustache that was trimmed in two sharp
lines almost at right angles to each other. They came down below the corners of
his mouth a full inch. The effect was Oriental. His skin had a thick, glistening
pallor.

He slid behind the croupiers, stopped at a corner of the center table,
glanced at the red-haired girl and touched the ends of his mustache with two
fingers, the nails of which had a purplish tint.

He smiled suddenly, and the instant after it was as though he had never
smiled in his life. He spoke in a dull, ironic voice.

"Good evening, Miss Glenn. You must let me send somebody with you when
you go home. I'd hate to see any of that money get in the wrong pockets."

The red-haired girl looked at him, not very pleasantly.

"I'm not leaving-unless you're throwing me out."

Canales said: "No? What would you like to do?"

"Bet the wad-dark meat!"

The crowd noise became a deathly silence. There wasn't a whisper of any kind
of sound. Harger's face slowly got ivorywhite.

Canales' face was without expression. He lifted a hand, delicately, gravely,
slipped a large wallet from his dinner jacket and tossed it in front of the tall
croupier.

"Ten grand," he said in a voice that was a dull rustle of sound.
"That's my limit-always."

The tall croupier picked the wallet up, spread it, drew out two flat packets
of crisp bills, riffled them, refolded the wallet and passed it along the edge
of the table to Canales.

Canales did not move to take it. Nobody moved, except the croupier.

The girl said: "Put it on the red."

The croupier leaned across the table and very carefully stacked her money and
chips. He placed her bet for her on the red diamond. He placed his hand along
the curve of the wheel.

"If no one objects," Canales said, without looking at anyone,
"this is just the two of us."

Heads moved. Nobody spoke. The croupier spun the wheel and sent the ball
skimming in the groove with a light flirt of his left wrist. Then he drew his
hands back and placed them in full view on the edge of the table, on top of it.

The red-haired girl's eyes shone and her lips slowly parted.

The ball drifted along the groove, dipped past one of the bright metal
diamonds, slid down the flank of the wheel and chattered along the tines beside
the numbers. Movement went out of it suddenly, with a dry click. It fell next
the doublezero, in red twenty-seven. The wheel was motionless.

The croupier took up his rake and slowly pushed the two packets of bills
across, added them to the stake, pushed the whole thing off the field of play.

Canales put his wallet back in his breast pocket, turned and walked slowly
back to the door, went through it.

I took my cramped fingers off the top of the railing, and a lot of people
broke for the bar.

THREE

When Lou came up I was sitting at a little tile-top table in a corner,
fooling with some more of the tequila. The little orchestra was playing a thin,
brittle tango and one couple was maneuvering self-consciously on the dance
floor.

Lou had a cream-colored overcoat on, with the collar turned up around a lot
of white silk scarf. He had a fine-drawn glistening expression. He had white
pigskin gloves this time and he put one of them down on the table and leaned at
me.

"Over twenty-two thousand," he said softly. "Boy, what a
take!"

I said: "Very nice money, Lou. What kind of car are you driving?"

"See anything wrong with it?"

"The play?" I shrugged, fiddled with my glass. "I'm not wised
up on roulette, Lou . . . I saw plenty wrong with your broad's manners."

"She's not a broad," Lou said. His voice got a little worried.

"Okey. She made Canales look like a million. What kind of car?"

"Buick sedan. Nile green, with two spotlights and those little fender
lights on rods." His voice was still worried.

I said: "Take it kind of slow through town. Give me a chance to get in
the parade."

He moved his glove and went away. The red-haired girl was not in sight
anywhere. I looked down at the watch on my wrist. When I looked up again Canales
was standing across the table. His eyes looked at me lifelessly above his trick
mustache.

"You don't like my place," he said.

"On the contrary."

"You don't come here to play." He was telling me, not asking me.

"Is it compulsory?" I asked dryly.

A very faint smile drifted across his face. He leaned a little down and said:
"I think you are a dick. A smart dick."

"Just a shamus," I said. "And not so smart. Don't let my long
upper lip fool you. It runs in the family."

Canales wrapped his fingers around the top of a chair, squeezed on it.
"Don't come here again-for anything." He spoke very softly, almost
dreamily. "I don't like pigeons."

I took the cigarette out of my mouth and looked it over before I looked at
him. I said: "I heard you insulted a while back. You took it nicely . . .
So we won't count this one."

He had a queer expression for a moment. Then he turned and slid away with a
little sway of the shoulders. He put his feet down flat and turned them out a
good deal as he walked. His walk, like his face, was a little negroid.

I got up and went out through the big white double doors into a dim lobby,
got my hat and coat and put them on. I went out through another pair of double
doors onto a wide veranda with scrollwork along the edge of its roof. There was
sea fog in the air and the windblown Monterey cypresses in front of the house
dripped with it. The grounds sloped gently into the dark for a long distance.
Fog hid the ocean.

I had parked the car out on the street, on the other side of the house. I
drew my hat down and walked soundlessly on the damp moss that covered the
driveway, rounded a corner of the porch, and stopped rigidly.

A man just in front of me was holding a gun-but he didn't see me. He was
holding the gun down at his side, pressed against the material of his overcoat,
and his big hand made it look quite small. The dim light that reflected from the
barrel seemed to come out of the fog, to be part of the fog. He was a big man,
and he stood very still, poised on the balls of his feet.

I lifted my right hand very slowly and opened the top two buttons of my coat,
reached inside and drew out a long .38 with a six-inch barrel. I eased it into
my overcoat pocket.

The man in front of me moved, reached his left hand up to his face. He drew
on a cigarette cupped inside his hand and the glow put brief light on a heavy
chin, wide, dark nostrils, and a square, aggressive nose, the nose of a fighting
man.

Then he dropped the cigarette and stepped on it and a quick, light step made
faint noise behind me. I was far too late turning.

Something swished and I went out like a light.

FOUR

When I came to I was cold and wet and had a headache a yard wide. There was a
soft bruise behind my right ear that wasn't bleeding. I had been put down with a
sap.

I got up off my back and saw that I was a few yards from the driveway,
between two trees that were wet with fog. There was some mud on the backs of my
shoes. I had been dragged off the path, but not very far.

I went through my pockets. My gun was gone, of course, but that was all-that
and the idea that this excursion was all fun.

I nosed around through the fog, didn't find anything or see anyone, gave up
bothering about that, and went along the blank side of the house to a curving
line of palm trees and an old type arc light that hissed and flickered over the
entrance to a sort of lane where I had stuck the 1925 Marmon touring car I still
used for transportation. I got into it after wiping the seat off with a towel,
teased the motor alive, and choked it along to a big empty street with disused
car tracks in the middle.

I went from there to De Cazens Boulevard, which was the main drag of Las
Olindas and was called after the man who built Canales' place long ago. After a
while there was town, buildings, dead-looking stores, a service station with a
nightbell, and at last a drugstore which was still open.

A dolled-up sedan was parked in front of the drugstore and I parked behind
that, got out, and saw that a hatless man was sitting at the counter, talking to
a clerk in a blue smock. They seemed to have the world to themselves. I started
to go in, then I stopped and took another look at the dolled-up sedan.

It was a Buick and of a color that could have been Nile-green in daylight. It
had two spotlights and two little egg-shaped amber lights stuck up on thin
nickel rods clamped to the front fenders. The window by the driver's seat was
down. I went back to the Marmon and got a flash, reached in and twisted the
license holder of the Buick around, put the light on it quickly, then off again.

It was registered to Louis N. Harger.

I got rid of the flash and went into the drugstore. There was a liquor
display at one side, and the clerk in the blue smock sold me a pint of Canadian
Club, which I took over to the counter and opened. There were ten seats at the
counter, but I sat down on the one next to the hatless man. He began to look me
over, in the mirror, very carefully.

I got a cup of black coffee two-thirds full and added plenty of the rye. I
drank it down and waited for a minute, to let it warm me up. Then I looked the
hatless man over.

He was about twenty-eight, a little thin on top, had a healthy red face,
fairly honest eyes, dirty hands and looked as if he wasn't making much money. He
wore a gray whipcord jacket with metal buttons on it, pants that didn't match.

I said carelessly, in a iow voice: "Your bus outside?"

He sat very still. His mouth got small and tight and he had trouble pulling
his eyes away from mine, in the mirror.

"My brother's," he said, after a moment.

I said: "Care for a drink?Your brother is an old friend of mine."

He nodded slowly, gulped, moved his hand slowly, but finally got the bottle
and curdled his coffee with it. He drank the whole thing down. Then I watched
him dig up a crumpled pack of cigarettes, spear his mouth with one, strike a
match on the counter, after missing twice on his thumbnail, and inhale with a
lot of very poor nonchalance that he knew wasn't going over.

I leaned close to him and said evenly: "This doesn't have to be
trouble."

He said: "Yeah ... Wh-what's the beef?"

The clerk sidled towards us. I asked for more coffee. When I got it I stared
at the clerk until he went and stood in front of the display window with his
back to me. I laced my second cup of coffee and drank some of it. I looked at
the clerk's back and said: "The guy the car belongs to doesn't have a
brother."

He held himself tightly, but turned towards me. "You think it's a hot
car?"

"No."

"You don't think it's a hot car?"

I said: "No. I just want the story."

"You a dick?"

"Uh-huh-but it isn't a shakedown, if that's what worries you."

He drew hard on his cigarette and moved his spoon around in his empty cup.

"I can lose my job over this," he said slowly. "But I needed a
hundred bucks. I'm a hack driver."

"I guessed that," I said.

He looked surprised, turned his head and stared at me. "Have another
drink and let's get on with it," I said. "Car thieves don't park them
on the main drag and then sit around in drugstores."

The clerk came back from the window and hovered near us, busying himself with
rubbing a rag on the coffee urn. A heavy silence fell. The clerk put the rag
down, went along to the back of the store, behind the partition, and began to
whistle aggressively.

The man beside me took some more of the whiskey and drank it, nodding his
head wisely at me. "Listen-I brought a fare out and was supposed to wait
for him. A guy and a jane come up alongside me in the Buick and the guy offers
me a hundred bucks to let him wear my cap and drive my hack into town. I'm to
hang around here an hour, then take his heap to the Hotel Carillon on Towne
Boulevard. My cab will be there for me. He gives me the hundred bucks."

"What was his story?" I asked.

"He said they'd been to a gambling joint and had some luck for a change.
They're afraid of holdups on the way in. They figure there's always spotters
watchin' the play."

I took one of his cigarettes and straightened it out in my fingers.
"It's a story I can't hurt much," I said. "Could I see your
cards?"

He gave them to me. His name was Tom Sneyd and he was a driver for the Green
Top Cab Company. I corked my pint, slipped it into my side pocket, and danced a
half-dollar on the counter.

The clerk came along and made change. He was almost shaking with curiosity.

"Come on, Tom," I said in front of him. "Let's go get that
cab. I don't think you should wait around here any longer."

We went out, and I let the Buick lead me away from the straggling lights of
Las Olindas, through a series of small beach towns with little houses built on
sandlots close to the ocean, and bigger ones built on the slopes of the hills
behind. A window was lit here and there. The tires sang on the moist concrete
and the little amber lights on the Buick's fenders peeped back at me from the
curves.

At West Cimarron we turned inland, chugged on through Canal City, and met the
San Angelo Cut. It took us almost an hour to get to 5640 Towne Boulevard, which
is the number of the Hotel Carillon. It is a big, rambling slate-roofed building
with a basement garage and a forecourt fountain on which they play a pale green
light in the evening.

Green Top Cab No. 469 was parked across the street, on the dark side. I
couldn't see where anybody had been shooting into it. Tom Sneyd found his cap in
the driver's compartment, climbed eagerly under the wheel.

"Does that fix me up? Can I go now?" His voice was strident with
relief.

I told him it was all right with me, and gave him my card. It was twelve
minutes past one as he took the corner. I climbed into the Buick and tooled it
down the ramp to the garage and left it with a colored boy who was dusting cars
in slow motion. I went around to the lobby.

The clerk was an ascetic-looking young man who was reading a volume of
_California Appellate Decisions_ under the switchboard light. He said Lou was
not in and had not been in since eleven, when he came on duty. After a short
argument about the lateness of the hour and the importance of my visit, he rang
Lou's apartment, but there wasn't any answer.

I went out and sat in my Marmon for a few minutes, smoked a cigarette,
imbibed a little from my pint of Canadian Club. Then I went back into the
Carillon and shut myself in a pay booth. I dialed the Telegram, asked for the
City Desk, got a man named Von Ballin.

He yelped at me when I told him who I was. "You still walking around?
That ought to be a story. I thought Manny Tinnen's friends would have had you
laid away in old lavender by this time."

I said: "Can that and listen to this. Do you know a man named Lou
Harger? He's a gambler. Had a place that was raided and closed up a month
ago."

Von Ballin said he didn't know Lou personally, but he knew who he was.

"Who around your rag would know him real well?"

He thought a moment. "There's a lad named Jerry Cross here," he
said, "that's supposed to be an expert on night life. What did you want to
know?"

"Where would he go to celebrate," I said. Then I told him some of
the story, not too much. I left out the part where I got sapped and the part
about the taxi. "He hasn't shown at his hotel," I ended. "I ought
to get a line on him."

"Well, if you're a friend of his-"

"Of his-not of his crowd," I said sharply.

Von Ballin stopped to yell at somebody to take a call, then said to me
softly, close to the phone: "Come through, boy. Come through."

"All right. But I'm talking to you, not to your sheet. I got sapped and
lost my gun outside Canales' joint. Lou and his girl switched his car for a taxi
they picked up. Then they dropped out of sight. I don't like it too well. Lou
wasn't drunk enough to chase around town with that much dough in his pockets.
And if he was, the girl wouldn't let him. She had the practical eye."

"I'll see what I can do," Von Ballin said. "But it don't sound
promising. I'll give you a buzz."

I told him I lived at the Merritt Plaza, in case he had forgotten, went out
and got into the Marmon again. I drove home and put hot towels on my head for
fifteen minutes, then sat around in my pajamas and drank hot whiskey and lemon
and called the Carillon every once in a while. At two-thirty Von Ballin called
me and said no luck. Lou hadn't been pinched, he wasn't in any of the Receiving
Hospitals, and he hadn't shown at any of the clubs Jerry Cross could think of.

At three I called the Carillon for the last time. Then I put my light out and
went to sleep.

In the morning it was the same way. I tried to trace the redhaired girl a
little. There were twenty-eight people named Glenn in the phone book, and three
women among them. One didn't answer, the other two assured me they didn't have
red hair. One offered to show me.

I shaved, showered, had breakfast, walked three blocks down the hill to the
Condor Building.

Miss Glenn was sitting in my little reception room.

FIVE

I unlocked the other door and she went in and sat in the chair where Lou had
sat the afternoon before. I opened some windows, locked the outer door of the
reception room, and struck a match for the unlighted cigarette she held in her
ungloved and ringless left hand.

She was dressed in a blouse and plaid skirt with a loose coat over them, and
a close-fitting hat that was far enough out of style to suggest a run of bad
luck. But it hid almost all of her hair. Her skin was without make-up and she
looked about thirty and had the set face of exhaustion.

She held her cigarette with a hand that was almost too steady, a hand on
guard. I sat down and waited for her to talk.

She stared at the wall over my head and didn't say anything. After a little
while I packed my pipe and smoked for a minute. Then I got up and went across to
the door that opened into the hallway and picked up a couple of letters that had
been pushed through the slot.

I sat down at the desk again, looked them over, read one of them twice, as if
I had been alone. While I was doing this I didn't look at her directly or speak
to her, but I kept an eye on her all the same. She looked like a lady who was
getting nerved for something.

Finally she moved. She opened up a big black patent-leather bag and took out
a fat manila envelope, pulled a rubber band off it and sat holding the envelope
between the palms of her hands, with her head tilted way back and the cigarette
dribbling gray smoke from the corners of her mouth.

She said slowly: "Lou said if I ever got caught in the rain, you were
the boy to see. It's raining hard where I am."

I stared at the manila envelope. "Lou is a pretty good friend of
mine," I said. "I'd do anything in reason for him. Some things not in
reason-like last night. That doesn't mean Lou and I always play the same
games."

She dropped her cigarette into the glass bowl of the ash tray and left it to
smoke. A dark flame burned suddenly in her eyes, then went out.

"Lou is dead." Her voice was quite toneless.

I reached over with a pencil and stabbed at the hot end of the cigarette
until it stopped smoking.

She went on: "A couple of Canales' boys got him in my apartment-with one
shot from a small gun that looked like my gun. Mine was gone when I looked for
it afterwards. I spent the night there with him dead . . . I had to."

She broke quite suddenly. Her eyes turned up in her head and her head came
down and hit the desk. She lay still, with the manila envelope in front of her
lax hands.

I jerked a drawer open and brought up a bottle and a glass, poured a stiff
one and stepped around with it, heaved her up in her chair. I pushed the edge of
the glass hard against her mouth-hard enough to hurt. She struggled and
swallowed. Some of it ran down her chin, but life came back into her eyes.

I left the whiskey in front of her and sat down again. The flap of the
envelope had come open enough for me to see currency inside, bales of currency.

She began to talk to me in a dreamy sort of voice.

"We got all big bills from the cashier, but makes quite a package at
that. There's twenty-two thousand even in the envelope. I kept out a few odd
hundreds.

"Lou was worried. He figured it would be pretty easy for Canales to
catch up with us. You might be right behind and not be able to do very much
about it."

I said: "Canales lost the money in full view of everybody there. It was
good advertising-even if it hurt."

She went on exactly as though I had not spoken. "Going through the town
we spotted a cab driver sitting in his parked cab and Lou had a brain wave. He
offered the boy a C note to let him drive the cab into San Angelo and bring the
Buick to the hotel after a while. The boy took us up and we went over on another
street and made the switch. We were sorry about ditching you, but Lou said you
wouldn't mind. And we might get a chance to flag you.

"Lou didn't go into his hotel. We took another cab over to my place. I
live at the Hobart Arms, eight hundred block on South Minter. It's a place where
you don't have to answer questions at the desk. We went up to my apartment and
put the lights on and two guys with masks came around the halfwall between the
living room and the dinette. One was small and thin and the other one was a big
slob with a chin that stuck out under his mask like a shelf. Lou made a wrong
motion and the big one shot him just the once. The gun just made a flat crack,
not very loud, and Lou fell down on the floor and never moved."

I said: "It might be the ones that made a sucker out of me. I haven't
told you about that yet."

She didn't seem to hear that either. Her face was white and composed, but as
expressionless as plaster. "Maybe I'd better have another finger of the
hooch," she said.

I poured us a couple of drinks, and we drank them. She went on: "They
went through us, but we didn't have the money. We had stopped at an all-night
drugstore and had it weighed and mailed it at a branch post office. They went
through the apartment, but of course we had just come in and hadn't had time to
hide anything. The big one slammed me down with his fist, and when I wOke up
again they were gone and I was alone with Lou dead on the floor."

She pointed to a mark on the angle of her jaw. There was something there, but
it didn't show much. I moved around in my chair a little and said: "They
passed you on the way in. Smart boys would have looked a taxi over on that road.
How did they know where to go?"

"I thought that out during the night," Miss Glenn said.
"Canales knows where I live. He followed me home once and tried to get me
to ask him up."

"Yeah," I said, "but why did they go to your place and how did
they get in?"

"That's not hard. There's a ledge just below the windows and a man could
edge along it to the fire escape. They probably had other boys covering Lou's
hotel. We thought of that chance, but we didn't think about my place being known
to them."

"Tell me the rest of it," I said.

"The money was mailed to me," Miss Glenn explained. "Lou was a
swell boy, but a girl has to protect herself. That's why I had to stay there
last night with Lou dead on the floor. Until the mail came. Then I came over
here."

I got up and looked out of the window. A fat girl was pounding a typewriter
across the court. I could hear the clack of it. I sat down again, stared at my
thumb.

"Did they plant the gun?" I asked.

"Not unless it's under him. I didn't look there."

"They let you off too easy. Maybe it wasn't Canales at all. Did Lou open
his heart to you much?"

She shook her head quietly. Her eyes were slate-blue now, and thoughtful,
without the blank stare.

"All right," I said. "Just what did you think of having me do
about it all?"

She narrowed her eyes a little, then put a hand out and pushed the bulging
envelope slowly across the desk.

"I'm no baby and I'm in a jam. But I'm not going to the cleaners just
the same. Half of this money is mine, and I want it with a clean getaway.
One-half net. If I'd called the law last night, there'd have been a way to
chisel me out of it . . . I think Lou would like you to have his half, if you
want to play with me."

I said: "It's big money to flash at a private dick, Miss Glenn,"
and smiled wearily. "You're a little worse off for not calling cops last
night. But there's an answer to anything they might say. I think I'd better go
over there and see what's broken, if anything."

She leaned forward quickly and said: "Will you take care of the money? .
. . Dare you?"

"Sure. I'll pop downstairs and put it in a safe-deposit box. You can
hold one of the keys-and we'll talk split later on. I think it would be a swell
idea if Canales knew he had to see me, and still sweller if you hid out in a
little hotel where I have a friend-at least until I nose around a bit."

She nodded. I put my hat on and put the envelope inside my belt. I went out,
telling her there was a gun in the top lefthand drawer, if she felt nervous.

When I got back she didn't seem to have moved. But she said she had phoned
Canales' place and left a message for him she thought he would understand.

We went by rather devious ways to the Lorraine, at Brant and Avenue C. Nobody
shot at us going over, and as far as I could see we were not trailed.

I shook hands with Jim Dolan, the day clerk at the Lorraine, with a twenty
folded in my hand. He put his hand in his pocket and said he would be glad to
see that "Miss Thompson" was not bothered.

I left. There was nothing in the noon paper about Lou Harger of the Hobart
Arms.

SIX

The Hobart Arms was just another apartment house, in a block lined with them.
It was six stories high and had a buff front. A lot of cars were parked at both
curbs all along the block. I drove through slowly and looked things over. The
neighborhood didn't have the look of having been excited about anything in the
immediate past. It was peaceful and sunny, and the parked cars had a settled
look, as if they were right at home.

I circled into an alley with a high board fence on each side and a lot of
flimsy garages cutting it. I parked beside one that had a For Rent sign and went
between two garbage cans into the concrete yard of the Hobart Arms, along the
side to the street. A man was putting golf clubs into the back of a coupe. In
the lobby a Filipino was dragging a vacuum cleaner over the rug and a dark
Jewess was writing at the switchboard.

I used the automatic elevator and prowled along an upper corridor to the last
door on the left. I knocked, waited, knocked again, went in with Miss Glenn's
key.

Nobody was dead on the floor.

I looked at myself in the mirror that was the back of a pulldown bed, went
across and looked out of a window. There was a ledge below that had once been a
coping. It ran along to the fire escape. A blind man could have walked in. I
didn't notice anything like footmarks in the dust on it.

There was nothing in the dinette or kitchen except what belonged there. The
bedroom had a cheerful carpet and painted gray walls. There was a lot of junk in
the corner, around a wastebasket, and a broken comb on the dresser held a few
strands of red hair. The closets were empty except for some gin bottles.

I went back to the living room, looked behind the wall bed, stood around for
a minute, left the apartment.

The Filipino in the lobby had made about three yards with the vacuum cleaner.
I leaned on the counter beside the switchboard.

"Miss Glenn?"

The dark Jewess said: "Five-two-four," and made a check mark on the
laundry list.

"She's not in. Has she been in lately?"

She glanced up at me. "I haven't noticed. What is it-a bill?"

I said I was just a friend, thanked her and went away. That established the
fact that there had been no excitement in Miss Glenn's apartment. I went back to
the alley and the Marmon.

I hadn't believed it quite the way Miss Glenn told it anyhow.

I crossed Cordova, drove a block and stopped beside a forgotten drugstore
that slept behind two giant pepper trees and a dusty, cluttered window. It had a
single pay booth in the corner. An old man shuffled towards me wistfully, then
went away when he saw what I wanted, lowered a pair of steel spectacles on to
the end of his nose and sat down again with his newspaper.

I dropped my nickel, dialed, and a girl's voice said: "Telegrayam!"
with a tinny drawl. I asked for Von Ballin.

When I got him and he knew who it was. I could hear him clearing his throat.
Then his voice came close to the phone and said very distinctly: "I've got
something for you, but it's bad. I'm sorry as all hell. Your friend Harger is in
the morgue. We got a flash about ten minutes ago."

I leaned against the wall of the booth and felt my eyes getting haggard. I
said: "What else did you get?"

"Couple of radio cops picked him up in somebody's front yard or
something, in West Cimarron. He was shot through the heart. It happened last
night, but for some reason they only just put out the identification."

I said: "West Cimarron, huh?Well, that takes care of that. I'll be in to
see you."

I thanked him and hung up, stood for a moment looking out through the glass
at a middle-aged gray-haired man who had come into the store and was pawing over
the magazine rack.

Then I dropped another nickel and dialed the Lorraine, asked for the clerk.

I said: "Get your girl to put me on to the redhead, will you, Jim?"

I got a cigarette out and lit it, puffed smoke at the glass of the door. The
smoke flattened out against the glass and swirled about in the close air. Then
the line clicked and the operator's voice said: "Sorry, your party does not
answer."

"Give me Jim again," I said. Then, when he answered, "Can you
take time to run up and find out why she doesn't answer the phone? Maybe she's
just being cagey."

Jim said: "You bet. I'll shoot right up with a key."

Sweat was coming out all over me. I put the receiver down on a little shelf
and jerked the booth door open. The grayhaired man looked up quickly from the
magazines, then scowled and looked at his watch. Smoke poured out of the booth.
After a moment I kicked the door shut and picked up the receiver again.

Jim's voice seemed to come to me from a long way off. "She's not here.
Maybe she went for a walk."

I said: "Yeah-or maybe it was a ride."

I pronged the receiver and pushed on out of the booth. The gray-haired
stranger slammed a magazine down so hard that it fell to the floor. He stooped
to pick it up as I went past him. Then he straightened up just behind me and
said quietly, but very firmly: "Keep the hands down, and quiet. Walk on out
to your heap. This is business."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the old man peeking short-sightedly
at us. But there wasn't anything for him to see, even if he could see that far.
Something prodded my back. It might have been a finger, but I didn't think it
was.

We went out of the store very peacefully.

A long gray car had stopped close behind the Marmon. Its rear door was open
and a man with a square face and a crooked mouth was standing with one foot out
on the running board. His right hand was behind him, inside the car.

My man's voice said: "Get in your car and drive west. Take this first
corner and go about twenty-five, not more."

The narrow street was sunny and quiet and the pepper trees whispered. Traffic
threshed by on Cordova a short block away. I shrugged, opened the door of my car
and got under the wheel. The gray-haired man got in very quickly beside me,
watching my hands. He swung his right hand around, with a snub-nosed gun in it.

"Careful getting your keys out, buddy."

I was careful. As I stepped on the starter a car door slammed behind, there
were rapid steps, and someone got into the back seat of the Marmon. I let in the
clutch and drove around the corner. In the mirror I could see the gray car
making the turn behind. Then it dropped back a little.

I drove west on a street that paralleled Cordova and when we had gone a block
and a half a hand came down over my shoulder from behind and took my gun away
from me. The gray-haired man rested his short revolver on his leg and felt me
over carefully with his free hand. He leaned back satisfied.

"Okey. Drop over to the main drag and snap it up," he said.
"But that don't mean trying to sideswipe a prowl car, if you lamp one . . .
Or if you think it does, try it and see."

I made the two turns, speeded up to thirty-five and held it there. We went
through some nice residential districts, and then the landscape began to thin
out. When it was quite thin the gray car behind dropped back, turned towards
town and disappeared.

"What's the snatch for?" I asked.

The gray-haired man laughed and rubbed his broad red chin. "Just
business. The big boy wants to talk to you."

"Canales?"

"Canales-hell! I said the big boy."

I watched traffic, what there was of it that far out, and didn't speak for a
few minutes. Then I said: "Why didn't you pull it in the apartment, or in
the alley?"

"Wanted to make sure you wasn't covered."

"Who's this big boy?"

"Skip that-till we get you there. Anything else?"

"Yes. Can I smoke?"

He held the wheel while I lit up. The man in the back seat hadn't said a word
at any time. After a while the gray-haired man made me pull up and move over,
and he drove.

"I used to own one of these, six years ago, when I was poor," he
said jovially.

I couldn't think of a really good answer to that, so I just let smoke seep
down into my lungs and wondered why, if Lou had been killed in West Cimarron,
the killers didn't get the money. And if he really had been killed at Miss
Glenn's apartment, why somebody had taken the trouble to carry him back to West
Cimarron.

SEVEN

In twenty minutes we were in the foothills. We went over a hogback, drifted
down a long white concrete ribbon, crossed a bridge, went halfway up the next
slope and turned off on a gravel road that disappeared around a shoulder of
scrub oak and manzanita. Plumes of pampas grass flared on the side of the hill,
like jets of water. The wheels crunched on the gravel and skidded on the curves.

We came to a mountain cabin with a wide porch and cemented boulder
foundations. The windmill of a generator turned slowly on the crest of a spur a
hundred feet behind the cabin. A mountain blue jay flashed across the road,
zoomed, banked sharply, and fell out of sight like a stone.

The gray-haired man tooled the car up to the porch, beside a tan-colored
Lincoln coupe, switched off the ignition and set the Marmon's long parking
brake. He took the keys out, folded them carefully in their leather case, put
the case away in his pocket.

The man in the back seat got out and held the door beside me open. He had a
gun in his hand. I got out. The gray-haired man got out. We all went into the
house.

There was a big room with walls of knotted pine, beautifully polished. We
went across it walking on Indian rugs and the gray-haired man knocked carefully
on a door.

A voice shouted: "What is it?"

The gray-haired man put his face against the door and said: "Beasley-and
the guy you wanted to talk to."

The voice inside said to come on in. Beasley opened the door, pushed me
through it and shut it behind me.

It was another big room with knotted pine walls and Indian rugs on the floor.
A driftwood fire hissed and puffed on a stone hearth.

The man who sat behind a flat desk was Frank Dorr, the politico.

He was the kind of man who liked to have a desk in front of him, and shove
his fat stomach against it, and fiddle with things on it, and look very wise. He
had a fat, muddy face, a thin fringe of white hair that stuck up a little, small
sharp eyes, small and very delicate hands.

What I could see of him was dressed in a slovenly gray suit, and there was a
large black Persian cat on the desk in front of him. He was scratching the cat's
head with one of his little neat hands and the cat was leaning against his hand.
Its busy tail flowed over the edge of the desk and fell straight down.

He said: "Sit down," without looking away from the cat.

I sat down in a leather chair with a very low seat, Dorr said: "How do
you like it up here? Kind of nice, ain't it? This is Toby, my girl friend. Only
girl friend I got. Ain't you, Toby?"

I said: "I like it up here-but I don't like the way I got here."

Dorr raised his head a few inches and looked at me with his mouth slightly
open. He had beautiful teeth, but they hadn't grown in his mouth. He said:
"I'm a busy man, brother. It was simpler than arguing. Have a drink?"

"Sure I'll have a drink," I said.

He squeezed the cat's head gently between his two palms, then pushed it away
from him and put both hands down on the arms of his chair. He shoved hard and
his face got a little red and he finally got up on his feet. He waddled across
to a built-in cabinet and took out a squat decanter of whiskey and two
gold-veined glasses.

"No ice today," he said, waddling back to the desk. "Have to
drink it straight."

He poured two drinks, gestured, and I went over and got mine. He sat down
again. I sat down with my drink. Dorr lit a long brown cigar, pushed the box two
inches in my direction, leaned back and stared at me with complete relaxation.

"You're the guy that fingered Manny Tinnen," he said. "It
won't do."

I sipped my whiskey. It was good enough to sip.

"Life gets complicated at times," Dorr went on, in the same even,
relaxed voice. "Politics-even when it's a lot of fun-is tough on the
nerves. You know me. I'm tough and I get what I want. There ain't a hell of a
lot I want any more, but what I want-I want bad. And ain't so damn particular
how I get it."

"You have that reputation," I said politely.

Dorr's eyes twinkled. He looked around for the cat, dragged it towards him by
the tail, pushed it down on its side and began to rub its stomach. The cat
seemed to like it.

Dorr looked at me and said very softly: "You bumped Lou Harger."

"What makes you think so?" I asked, without any particular
emphasis.

"You bumped Lou Harger. Maybe he needed the bump- but you gave it to
him. He was shot once through the heart, with a thirty-eight. You wear a
thirty-eight and you're known to be a fancy shot with it. You were with Harger
at Las Olindas last night and saw him win a lot of money. You were supposed to
be acting as bodyguard for him, but you got a better idea. You caught up with
him and that girl in West Cimarron, slipped Harger the dose and got the
money."

I finished my whiskey, got up and poured myself some more of it.

"You made a deal with the girl," Dorr said, "but the deal
didn't stick. She got a cute idea. But that don't matter, because the police got
your gun along with Harger. And you got the dough."

I said: "Is there a tag out for me?"

"Not till I give the word ... And the gun hasn't been turned in . . . I
got a lot of friends, you know."

I said slowly: "I got sapped outside Canales' place. It served me right.
My gun was taken from me. I never caught up with Harger, never saw him again.
The girl came to me this morning with the money in an envelope and a story that
Harger had been killed in her apartment. That's how I have the money- for
safekeeping. I wasn't sure about the girl's story, but her bringing the money
carried a lot of weight. And Harger was a friend of mine. I started out to
investigate."

"You should have let the cops do that," Dorr said with a grin.

"There was a chance the girl was being framed. Besides there was a
possibility I might make a few dollars-legitimately. It has been done, even in
San Angelo."

Dorr stuck a finger towards the cat's face and the cat bit it, with an absent
expression. Then it pulled away from him, sat down on a corner of the desk and
began to lick one toe.

"Twenty-two grand, and the jane passed it over to you to keep,"
Dorr said. "Ain't that just like a jane?

"You got the dough," Dorr said. "Harger was killed with your
gun. The girl's gone-but I could bring her back. I think she'd make a good
witness, if we needed one."

"Was the play at Las Olindas crooked?" I asked.

Dorr finished his drink and curled his lips around his cigar again.
"Sure," he said carelessly. "The croupier-a guy named Pina-was in
on it. The wheel was wired for the double-zero. The old crap. Copper button on
the floor, copper button on Pina's shoe sole, wires up his leg, batteries in his
hip pockets. The old crap."

I said: "Canales didn't act as if he knew about it."

Dorr chuckled. "He knew the wheel was wired. He didn't know his head
croupier was playin' on the other team."

"I'd hate to be Pina," I said.

Dorr made a negligent motion with his cigar. "He's taken care of. . .
The play was careful and quiet. They didn't make any fancy long shots, just even
money bets, and they didn't win all the time. They couldn't. No wired wheel is
that good."

I shrugged, moved around in my chair. "You know a hell of a lot about
it," I said. "Was all this just to get me set for a squeeze?"

He grinned softly: "Hell, no! Some of it just happened-the way the best
plans do." He waved his cigar again, and a pale gray tendril of smoke
curled past his cunning little eyes. There was a muffled sound of talk in the
outside room. "I got connections I got to please-even if I don't like all
their capers," he added simply.

"Like Manny Tinnen?" I said. "He was around City Hall a lot,
knew too much. Okey, Mister Dorr. Just what do you figure on having me do for
you? Commit suicide?"

He laughed. His fat shoulders shook cheerfully. He put one of his small hands
out with the palm towards me. "I wouldn't think of that," he said
dryly, "and the other way's better business. The way public opinion is
about the Shannon kill. I ain't sure that louse of a D.A. wouldn't convict
Tinnen without you-if he could sell the folks the idea you'd been knocked off to
button your mouth."

I got up out of my chair, went over and leaned on the desk, leaned across it
towards Dorr.

He said: "No funny business!" a little sharply and breathlessly.
His hand went to a drawer and got it half open. His movements with his hands
were very quick in contrast with the movements of his body.

I smiled down at the hand and he took it away from the drawer. I saw a gun
just inside the drawer.

I said: "I've already talked to the Grand Jury."

Dorr leaned back and smiled at me. "Guys make mistakes," he said.
"Even smart private dicks ... You could have a change of heart-and put it
in writing."

I said very softly. "No. I'd be under a perjury rap-which I couldn't
beat. I'd rather be under a murder rap-which I can beat. Especially as
Fenweather will want me to beat it. He won't want to spoil me as a witness. The
Tinnen case is too important to him."

Dorr said evenly: "Then you'll have to try and beat it, brother. And
after you get through beating it there'll still be enough mud on your neck so no
jury'll convict Manny on your say-so alone."

I put my hand out slowly and scratched the cat's ear. "What about the
twenty-two grand?"

"It _could_ be all yours, if you want to play. After all, it ain't my
money . . . If Manny gets clear, I might add a little something that _is_ my
money."

I tickled the cat under its chin. It began to purr. I picked it up and held
it gently in my arms.

"Who did kill Lou Harger, Dorr?" I asked, not looking at him.

He shook his head. I looked at him, smiling. "Swell cat you have,"
I said.

Dorr licked his lips. "I think the little bastard likes you," he
grinned. He looked pleased at the idea.

I nodded-and threw the cat in his face.

He yelped, but his hands came up to catch the cat. The cat twisted neatly in
the air and landed with both front paws working. One of them split Dorr's cheek
like a banana peel. He yelled very loudly.

I had the gun out of the drawer and the muzzle of it into the back of Dorr's
neck when Beasley and the square-faced man dodged in.

For an instant there was a sort of tableau. Then the cat tore itself loose
from Dorr's arms, shot to the floor and went under the desk. Beasley raised his
snub-nosed gun, but he didn't look as if he was certain what he meant to do with
it.

I shoved the muzzle of mine hard into Dorr's neck and said: "Frankie
gets it first, boys ... And that's not a gag."

Dorr grunted in front of me. "Take it easy," he growled to his
hoods. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and began to dab at his
split and bleeding cheek with it. The man with the crooked mouth began to sidle
along the wall.

I said: "Don't get the idea I'm enjoying this, but I'm not fooling
either. You heels stay put."

The man with the crooked mouth stopped sidling and gave me a nasty leer. He
kept his hands low.

Dorr half turned his head and tried to talk over his shoulder to me. I
couldn't see enough of his face to get any expression, but he didn't seem
scared. He said: "This won't get you anything. I could have you knocked off
easy enough, if that was what I wanted. Now where are you? You can't shoot
anybody without getting in a worse jam than if you did what I asked you to. It
looks like a stalemate to me."

I thought that over for a moment while Beasley looked at me quite pleasantly,
as though it was all just routine to him. There was nothing pleasant about the
other man. I listened hard, but the rest of the house seemed to be quite silent.

Dorr edged forward from the gun and said: "Well?"

I said: "I'm going out. I have a gun and it looks like a gun that I
could hit somebody with, if I have to. I don't want to very much, and if you'll
have Beasley throw my keys over and the other one turn back the gun he took from
me, I'll forget about the snatch."

Dorr moved his arms in the lazy beginning of a shrug. "Then what?"

"Figure out your deal a little closer," I said. "If you get
enough protection behind me, I might throw in with you . . . And if you're as
tough as you think you are, a few hours won't cut any ice one way or the
other."

"It's an idea," Dorr said and chuckled. Then to Beasley: "Keep
your rod to yourself and give him his keys. Also his gun-the one you got
today."

Beasley sighed and very carefully inserted a hand into his pants. He tossed
my leather keycase across the room near the end of the desk. The man with the
twisted mouth put his hand up, edged it inside his side pocket and I eased down
behind Dorr's back, while he did it. He came out with my gun, let it fall to the
floor and kicked it away from him.

I came out from behind Dorr's back, got my keys and the gun up from the
floor, moved sidewise towards the door of the room. Dorr watched with an empty
stare that meant nothing. Beasley followed me around with his body and stepped
away from the door as I neared it. The other man had trouble holding himself
quiet.

I got to the door and reversed a key that was in it. Dorr said dreamily:
"You're just like one of those rubber balls on the end of an elastic. The
farther you get away, the suddener you'll bounce back."

I said: "The elastic might be a little rotten," and went through
the door, turned the key in it and braced myself for shots that didn't come. As
a bluff, mine was thinner than the gold on a week-end wedding ring. It worked
because Dorr let it, and that was all.

I got out of the house, got the Marmon started and wrangled it around and
sent it skidding past the shoulder of the hill and so on down to the highway.
There was no sound of anything coming after me.

When I reached the concrete highway bridge it was a little past two o'clock,
and I drove with one hand for a while and wiped the sweat off the back of my
neck.

EIGHT

The morgue was at the end of a long and bright and silent corridor that
branched off from behind the main lobby of the County Building. The corridor
ended in two doors and a blank wall faced with marble. One door had
"Inquest Room" lettered on a glass panel behind which there was no
light. The other opened into a small, cheerful office.

A man with gander-blue eyes and rust-colored hair parted in the exact center
of his head was pawing over some printed forms at a table. He looked up, looked
me over, and then suddenly smiled.

I said: "Hello, Landon ... Remember the Shelby case?"

The bright blue eyes twinkled. He got up and came around the table with his
hand out. "Sure. What can we do-" He broke off suddenly and snapped
his fingers. "Hell! You're the guy that put the bee on that hot rod."

I tossed a butt through the open door into the corridor. "That's not why
I'm here," I said. "Anyhow not this time. There's a fellow named Louis
Harger . . . picked up shot last night or this morning, in West Cimarron, as I
get it. Could I take a look-see?"

"They can't stop you," Landon said.

He led the way through a door on the far side of his office into a place that
was all white paint and white enamel and glass and bright light. Against one
wall was a double tier of large bins with glass windows in them. Through the
peepholes showed bundles in white sheeting, and, further back, frosted pipes.

A body covered with a sheet lay on a table that was high at the head and
sloped down to the foot. Landon pulled the sheet down casually from a man's
dead, placid, yellowish face. Long black hair lay loosely on a small pillow,
with the dankness of water still in it. The eyes were half open and stared
incuriously at the ceiling.

I stepped close, looked at the face, Landon pulled the sheet on down and
rapped his knuckles on a chest that rang hollowly, like a board. There was a
bullet hole over the heart.

"Nice clean shot," he said.

I turned away quickly, got a cigarette out and rolled it around in my
fingers. I stared at the floor.

"Who identified him?"

"Stuff in his pockets," Landon said. "We're checking his
prints, of course. You know him?"

I said: "Yes."

Landon scratched the base of his chin softly with his thumbnail. We walked
back into the office and Landon went behind his table and sat down.

He thumbed over some papers, separated one from the pile and studied it for a
moment.

He said: "A sheriffs radio car found him at twelve thirtyfive AM., on
the side of the old road out of West Cimarron, a quarter of a mile from where
the cutoff starts. That isn't traveled much, but the prowl car takes a slant
down it now and then looking for petting parties."

I said: "Can you say how long he had been dead?"

"Not very long. He was still warm, and the nights are cool along
there."

I put my unlighted cigarette in my mouth and moved it up and down with my
lips. "And I bet you took a long thirty-eight out of him," I said.

"How did you know that?" Landon asked quickly.

"I just guess. It's that sort of hole."

He stared at me with bright, interested eyes. I thanked him, said I'd be
seeing him, went through the door and lit my cigarette in the corridor. I walked
back to the elevators and got into one, rode to the seventh floor, then went
along another corridor exactly like the one below except that it didn't lead to
the morgue. It led to some small, bare offices that were used by the District
Attorney's investigators. Halfway along I opened a door and went into one of
them.

Bernie Ohls was sitting humped loosely at a desk placed against the wall. He
was the chief investigator Fenweather had told me to see, if I got into any kind
of a jam. He was a mediumsized bland man with white eyebrows and an out-thrust,
very deeply cleft chin. There was another desk against the other wall, a couple
of hard chairs, a brass spittoon on a rubber mat and very little else.

Ohls nodded casually at me, got out of his chair and fixed the door latch.
Then he got a flat tin of little cigars out of his desk, lit one of them, pushed
the tin along the desk and stared at me along his nose. I sat down in one of the
straight chairs and tilted it back.

Ohls said: "Well?"

"It's Lou Harger," I said. "I thought maybe it wasn't."

"The hell you did. I could have told you it was Harger."

Somebody tried the handle of the door, then knocked. Ohls paid no attention.
Whoever it was went away.

I said slowly: "He was killed between eleven-thirty and twelve
thirty-five. There was just time for the job to be done where he was found.
There wasn't time for it to be done the way the girl said. There wasn't time for
me to do it."

Ohls said: "Yeah. Maybe you could prove that. And then maybe you could
prove a friend of yours didn't do it with your gun."

I said: "A friend of mine wouldn't be likely to do it with my gun-if he
was a friend of mine."

"Would I come and tell you about the money and the gun-everything that
ties me to it?"

Ohls said expressionlessly: "You would-if you knew damn well somebody
else had already told it for you."

I said: "Dorr wouldn't lose much time."

I pinched my cigarette out and flipped it towards the brass cuspidor. Then I
stood up.

"Okey. There's no tag out for me yet-so I'll go over and tell my
story."

Ohls said: "Sit down a minute."

I sat down. He took his little cigar out of his mouth and flung it away from
him with a savage gesture. It rolled along the brown linoleum and smoked in the
corner. He put his arms down on the desk and drummed with the fingers of both
hands. His lower lip came forward and pressed his upper lip back against his
teeth.

"Dorr probably knows you're here now," he said. "The only
reason you ain't in the tank upstairs is they're not sure but it would be better
to knock you off and take a chance. If Fenweather loses the election, I'll be
all washed up-if I mess around with you."

I said: "If he convicts Manny Tinnen, he won't lose the election."

Ohls took another of the little cigars out of the box and lit it. He picked
his hat off the desk, fingered it a moment, put it on.

"Why'd the redhead give you that song and dance about the bump in her
apartment, the stiff on the floor-all that hot comedy?"

"They wanted me to go over there. They figured I'd go to see if a gun
was planted-maybe just to check up on her. That got me away from the busy part
of town. They could tell better if the D.A. had any boys watching my blind
side."

"That's just a guess," Ohls said sourly.

I said: "Sure."

Ohls swung his thick legs around, planted his feet hard and leaned his hands
on his knees. The little cigar twitched in the corner of his mouth.

"I'd like to get to know some of these guys that let loose of twenty-two
grand just to color up a fairy tale," he said nastily.

I stood up again and went past him towards the door.

Ohls said: "What's the hurry?"

I turned around and shrugged, looked at him blankly. "You don't act very
interested," I said.

He climbed to his feet, said wearily: "The hack driver's most likely a
dirty little crook. But it might just be Dorr's lads don't know he rates in
this. Let's go get him while his memory's fresh."

NINE

The Green Top Garage was on Deviveras, three blocks east of Main. I pulled
the Marmon up in front of a fireplug and got out. Ohls slumped in the seat and
growled: "I'll stay here. Maybe I can spot a tail."

I went into a huge echoing garage, in the inner gloom of which a few brand
new paint jobs were splashes of sudden color. There was a small, dirty,
glass-walled office in the corner and a short man sat there with a derby hat on
the back of his head and a red tie under his stubbled chin. He was whittling
tobacco into the palm of his hand.

I said: "You the dispatcher?"

"Yeah."

"I'm looking for one of your drivers," I said. "Name of Tom
Sneyd."

He put down the knife and the plug and began to grind the cut tobacco between
his two palms. "What's the beef?" he asked cautiously.

I pulled a folded city map from an inside pocket and unfolded part of it on
the table in front of his nose. He looked annoyed.

"There's a big one on the wall," he growled, and began to pack a
short pipe with his tobacco.

"I'm used to this one," I said. I bent over the spread map, looking
for Renfrew Street. Then I stopped and looked suddenly at the face of the man in
the derby. "You remembered that address damn quick," I said.

He put his pipe in his mouth, bit hard on it, and pushed two quick fingers
into the pocket of his open vest.

"Couple other muggs was askin' for it a while back."

I folded the map very quickly and shoved it back into my pocket as I went
through the door. I jumped across the sidewalk, slid under the wheel and plunged
at the starter.

"We're headed," I told Bernie Ohls. "Two guys got the kid's
address there a while back. It might be-"

Ohs grabbed the side of the car and swore as we took the corner on squealing
tires. I bent forward over the wheel and drove hard. There was a red light at
Central. I swerved into a corner service station, went through the pumps, popped
out on Central and jostled through some traffic to make a right turn east again.

A colored traffic cop blew a whistle at me and then stared hard as if trying
to read the license number. I kept on going.

Warehouses, a produce market, a big gas tank, more warehouses, railroad
tracks, and two bridges dropped behind us. I beat three traffic signals by a
hair and went right through a fourth. Six blocks on I got the siren from a
motorcycle cop. Ohls passed me a bronze star and I flashed it out of the car,
twisting it so the sun caught it. The siren stopped. The motorcycle kept right
behind us for another dozen blocks, then sheered off.

Gray Lake is an artificial reservoir in a cut between two groups of hills, on
the east fringe of San Angelo. Narrow but expensively paved streets wind around
in the hills, describing elaborate curves along their flanks for the benefit of
a few cheap and scattered bungalows.

We plunged up into the hills, reading street signs on the run. The gray silk
of the lake dropped away from us and the exhaust of the old Marmon roared
between crumbling banks that shed dirt down on the unused sidewalks. Mongrel
dogs quartered in the wild grass among the gopher holes.

Renfrew was almost at the top. Where it began there was a small neat bungalow
in front of which a child in a diaper and nothing else fumbled around in a wire
pen on a patch of lawn. Then there was a stretch without houses. Then there were
two houses, then the road dropped, slipped in and out of sharp turns, went
between banks high enough to put the whole street in shadow.

Then a gun roared around a bend ahead of us.

Ohls sat up sharply, said: "Oh-oh! That's no rabbit gun," slipped
his service pistol out and unlatched the door on his side.

We came out of the turn and saw two more houses on the down side of the hill,
with a couple of steep lots between them. A long gray car was slewed across the
street in the space between the two houses. Its left front tire was flat and
both its front doors were wide open, like the spread ears of an elephant.

A small, dark-faced man was kneeling on both knees in the street beside the
open right-hand door. His right arm hung loose from his shoulder and there was
blood on the hand that belonged to it. With his other hand he was trying to pick
up an automatic from the concrete in front of him.

I skidded the Marmon to a fast stop and Ohis tumbled out.

"Drop that, you!" he yelled.

The man with the limp arm snarled, relaxed, fell back against the running
board, and a shot came from behind the car and snapped in the air not very far
from my ear. I was out on the road by that time. The gray car was angled enough
towards the houses so that I couldn't see any part of its left side except the
open door. The shot seemed to come from about there. Ohls put two slugs into the
door. I dropped, looked under the car and saw a pair of feet. I shot at them and
missed.

About that time there was a thin but very sharp crack from the corner of the
nearest house. Glass broke in the gray car. The gun behind it roared and plaster
jumped out of the corner of the house wall, above the bushes. Then I saw the
upper part of a man's body in the bushes. He was lying downhill on his stomach
and he had a light rifle to his shoulder.

He was Tom Sneyd, the taxi driver.

Ohls grunted and charged the gray car. He fired twice more into the door,
then dodged down behind the hood. More explosions occurred behind the car. I
kicked the wounded man's gun out of his way, slid past him and sneaked a look
over the gas tank. But the man behind had had too many angles to figure.

He was a big man in a brown suit and he made a clatter running hard for the
lip of the hill between the two bungalows. Ohls' gun roared. The man whirled and
snapped a shot without stopping. Ohls was in the open now. I saw his hat jerk
off his head. I saw him stand squarely on well-spread feet, steady his pistol as
if he was on the police range.

But the big man was already sagging. My bullet had drilled through his neck.
Ohls fired at him very carefully and he fell and the sixth and last slug from
his gun caught the man in the chest and twisted him around. The side of his head
slapped the curb with a sickening crunch.

We walked towards him from opposite ends of the car. Ohls leaned down, heaved
the man over on his back. His face in death had a loose, amiable expression, in
spite of the blood all over his neck. Ohls began to go through his pockets.

I looked back to see what the other one was doing. He wasn't doing anything
but sitting on the running board holding his right arm against his side and
grimacing with pain.

Tom Sneyd scrambled up the bank and came towards us.

Ohls said: "It's a guy named Poke Andrews. I've seen him around the
poolrooms." He stood up and brushed off his knee. He had some odds and ends
in his left hand. "Yeah, Poke Andrews. Gun work by the day, hour or week. I
guess there was a livin' in it-for a while."

"It's not the guy that sapped me," I said. "But it's the guy I
was looking at when I got sapped. And if the redhead was giving out any truth at
all this morning, it's likely the guy that shot Lou Harger."

Ohls nodded, went over and got his hat. There was a hole in the brim. "I
wouldn't be surprised at all," he said, putting his hat on calmly.

Tom Sneyd stood in front of us with his little rifle held rigidly across his
chest. He was hatless and coatless, and had sneakers on his feet. His eyes were
bright and mad, and he was beginning to shake.

"I knew I'd get them babies!" he crowed. "I knew I'd fix them
lousy bastards!" Then he stopped talking and his face began to change
color. It got green. He leaned down slowly, dropped his rifle, put both his
hands on his bent knees.

TEN

Tom Sneyd was lying on his back on a day bed in the front room of his little
bungalow. There was a wet towel across his forehead. A little girl with
honey-colored hair was sitting beside him, holding his hand. A young woman with
hair a couple of shades darker than the little girl's sat in the corner and
looked at Tom Sneyd with tired ecstasy.

It was very hot when we came in. All the windows were shut and all the blinds
down. Ohis opened a couple of front windows and sat down beside them, looked out
towards the gray car. The dark Mexican was anchored to its steering wheel by his
good wrist.

"It was what they said about my little girl," Tom Sneyd said from
under the towel. "That's what sent me screwy. They said they'd come back
and get her, if I didn't play with them."

Ohls said: "Okey, Tom. Let's have it from the start." He put one of
his little cigars in his mouth, looked at Tom Sneyd doubtfully, and didn't light
it.

I sat in a very hard Windsor chair and looked down at the cheap, new carpet.

"I was readin' a mag, waiting for time to eat and go to work," Tom
Sneyd said carefully. "The little girl opened the door. They come in with
guns on us, got us all in here and shut the windows. They pulled down all the
blinds but one and the Mex sat by that and kept looking out. He never said a
word. The big guy sat on the bed here and made me tell him all about last
night-twice. Then he said I was to forget I'd met anybody or come into town with
anybody. The rest was okey."

Ohls nodded and said: "What time did you first see this man here?"

"I didn't notice," Tom Sneyd said. "Say eleven-thirty, quarter
of twelve. I checked in to the office at one-fifteen, right after I got my hack
at the Carillon. It took us a good hour to make town from the beach. We was in
the drugstore talkin' say fifteen minutes, maybe longer."

"That figures back to around midnight when you met him," Ohls said.

Tom Sneyd shook his head and the towel fell down over his face. He pushed it
back up again.

"Well, no," Tom Sneyd said. "The guy in the drugstore told me
he closed up at twelve. He wasn't closing up when we left."

Ohls turned his head and looked at me without expression. He looked back at
Tom Sneyd. "Tell us the rest about the two gunnies," he said.

"The big guy said most likely I wouldn't have to talk to anybody about
it. If I did and talked right, they'd be back with some dough. If I talked
wrong, they'd be back for my little girl."

"Go on," Ohls said. "They're full of crap."

"They went away. When I saw them go on up the street I got screwy.
Renfrew is just a pocket-one of them graft jobs. It goes on around the hill half
a mile, then stops. There's no way to get off it. So they had to come back this
way . . . I got my twenty-two, which is all the gun I have, and hid in the
bushes. I got the tire with the second shot. I guess they thought it was a
blowout. I missed with the next and that put 'em wise. They got guns loose. I
got the Mex then, and the big guy ducked behind the car . . . That's all there
was to it. Then you come along."

Ohls flexed his thick, hard fingers and smiled grimly at the girl in the
corner. "Who lives in the next house, Tom?"

"A man named Grandy, a motorman on the interurban. He lives all alone.
He's at work now."

"I didn't guess he was home," Ohls grinned. He got up and went over
and patted the little girl on the head, "You'll have to come down and make
a statement, Tom."

"I ain't so sure about that," Ohls said softly. "Not if your
boss likes guys with a few guts to run his hacks."

He patted the little girl on the head again, went towards the door and opened
it. I nodded at Tom Sneyd and followed Ohls out of the house. Ohls said quietly:
"He don't know about the kill yet. No need to spring it in front of the
kid."

We went over to the gray car. We had got some sacks out of the basement and
spread them over the late Andrews, weighted them down with stones. Ohis glanced
that way and said absently: "I got to get to where there's a phone pretty
quick."

He leaned on the door of the car and looked in at the Mexican. The Mexican
sat with his head back and his eyes half-closed and a drawn expression on his
brown face. His left wrist was shackled to the spider of the wheel.

"What's your name?" Ohls snapped at him.

"Luis Cadena," the Mexican said it in a soft voice without' opening
his eyes any wider.

"Which one of you heels scratched the guy at West Cimarron last
night?"

"No understand, señor," the Mexican said purringly.

"Don't go dumb on me, spig," Ohls said dispassionately. "It
gets me sore." He leaned on the window and rolled his little cigar around
in his mouth.

The Mexican looked faintly amused and at the same time very tired. The blood
on his right hand had dried black.

Ohls said: "Andrews scratched the guy in a taxi at West Cimarron. There
was a girl along. We got the girl. You have a lousy chance to prove you weren't
in on it."

Light flickered and died behind the Mexican's half-open eyes. He smiled with
a glint of small white teeth.

Ohls said: "What did he do with the gun?"

"No understand, señor."

Ohls said: "He's tough. When they get tough it scares me."

He walked away from the car and scuffed some loose dirt from the sidewalk
beside the sacks that draped the dead man. His toe gradually uncovered the
contractor's stencil in the cement. He read it out loud: "Dorr Paving and
Construction Company, San Angelo. It's a wonder the fat louse wouldn't stay in
his own racket."

I stood beside Ohls and looked down the hill between the two houses. Sudden
flashes of light darted from the windshields of cars going along the boulevard
that fringed Gray Lake, far below.

Ohls said: "Well?"

I said: "The killers knew about the taxi-maybe-and the girl friend
reached town with the swag. So it wasn't Canales' job. Canales isn't the boy to
let anybody play around with twenty-two grand of his money. The redhead was in
on the kill, and it was done for a reason."

Ohls grinned. "Sure. It was done so you could be framed for it."

I said: "It's a shame how little account some folks take of human
life-or twenty-two grand. Harger was knocked off so I could be framed and the
dough was passed to me to make the frame tighter."

"Maybe they thought you'd highball," Ohls grunted. "That would
sew you up right."

I rolled a cigarette around in my fingers. "That would have been a
little too dumb, even for me. What do we do now? Wait till the moon comes up so
we can sing-or go down the hill and tell some more little white lies?"

Ohls spat on one of Poke Andrews' sacks. He said gruffly: "This is
county land here. I could take all this mess over to the sub-station at Solano
and keep it hush-hush for a while. The hack driver would be tickled to death to
keep it under the hat. And I've gone far enough so I'd like to get the Mex in
the goldfish room with me personal."

"I'd like it that way too," I said. "I guess you can't hold it
down there for long, but you might hold it down long enough for me to see a fat
boy about a cat."

ELEVEN

It was late afternoon when I got back to the hotel. The clerk handed me a
slip which read: "Please phone F. D. as soon as possible."

I went upstairs and drank some liquor that was in the bottom of a bottle.
Then I phoned down for another pint, scraped my chin, changed clothes and looked
up Frank Dorr's number in the book. He lived in a beautiful old house on
Greenview Park Crescent.

I made myself a tall smooth one with a tinkle and sat down in an easy chair
with the phone at my elbow. I got a maid first. Then I got a man who spoke
Mister Dorr's name as though he thought it might blow up in his mouth. After him
I got a voice with a lot of silk in it. Then I got a long silence and at the end
of the silence I got Frank Dorr himself. He sounded glad to hear from me.

He said: "I've been thinking about our talk this morning, and I have a
better idea. Drop out and see me . . . And you might bring that money along. You
just have time to get it out of the bank."

I said: "Yeah. The safe-deposit closes at six. But it's not your
money."

I heard him chuckle. "Don't be foolish. It's all marked, and I wouldn't
want to have to accuse you of stealing it."

I thought that over, and didn't believe it-about the currency being marked. I
took a drink out of my glass and said: "I might be willing to turn it over
to the party I got it from-in your presence."

He said: "Well-I told you that party left town. But I'll see what I can
do. No tricks, please."

I said of course no tricks, and hung up. I finished my drink, called Von
Ballin of the Telegram. He said the sheriffs people didn't seem to have any
ideas about Lou Harger-or give a damn. He was a little sore that I still
wouldn't let him use my story. I could tell from the way he talked that he
hadn't got the doings over near Gray Lake.

I called Ohls, couldn't reach him.

I mixed myself another drink, swallowed half of it and began to feel it too
much. I put my hat on, changed my mind about the other half of my drink, went
down to my car. The early evening traffic was thick with householders riding
home to dinner. I wasn't sure whether two cars tailed me or just one. At any
rate nobody tried to catch up and throw a pineapple in my lap.

The house was a square two-storied place of old red brick, with beautiful
grounds and a red brick wall with a white stone coping around them. A shiny
black limousine was parked under the porte-cochere at the side. I followed a
red-flagged walk up over two terraces, and a pale wisp of a man in a cutaway
coat let me into a wide, silent hall with dark old furniture and a glimpse of
garden at the end. He led me along that and along another hall at right angles
and ushered me softly into a paneled study that was dimly lit against the
gathering dusk. He went away, leaving me alone.

The end of the room was mostly open french windows, through which a
brass-colored sky showed behind a line of quiet trees. In front of the trees a
sprinkler swung slowly on a patch of velvety lawn that was already dark. There
were large dim oils on the walls, a huge black desk with books across one end, a
lot of deep lounging chairs, a heavy soft rug that went from wall to wall. There
was a faint smell of good cigars and beyond that somewhere a smell of garden
flowers and moist earth. The door opened and a youngish man in nose-glasses came
in, gave me a slight formal nod, looked around vaguely, and said that Mr. Dorr
would be there in a moment. He went out again, and I lit a cigarette.

In a little while the door opened again and Beasley came in, walked past me
with a grin and sat down just inside the windows. Then Dorr came in and behind
him Miss Glenn.

Dorr had his black cat in his arms and two lovely red scratches, shiny with
collodion, down his right cheek. Miss Glenn had on the same clothes I had seen
on her in the morning. She looked dark and drawn and spiritless, and she went
past me as though she had never seen me before.

Dorr squeezed himself into the high-backed chair behind the desk and put the
cat down in front of him. The cat strolled over to one corner of the desk and
began to lick its chest with a long, sweeping, businesslike motion.

Dorr said: "Well, well. Here we are," and chuckled pleasantly.

The man in the cutaway came in with a tray of cocktails, passed them around,
put the tray with the shaker down on a low table beside Miss Glenn. He went out
again, closing the door as if he was afraid he might crack it.

We all drank and looked very solemn.

I said: "We're all here but two. I guess we have a quorum."

Dorr said: "What's that?" sharply and put his head to one side.

I said: "Lou Harger's in the morgue and Canales is dodging cops.
Otherwise we're all here. All the interested parties."

Miss Glenn made an abrupt movement, then relaxed suddenly and picked at the
arm of her chair.

Dorr took two swallows of his cocktail, put the glass aside and folded his
small neat hands on the desk. His face looked a little sinister.

"The money," he said coldly. "I'll take charge of it
now."

I said: "Not now or any other time. I didn't bring it."

Dorr stared at me and his face got a little red. I looked at Beasley. Beasley
had a cigarette in his mouth and his hands in his pockets and the back of his
head against the back of his chair. He looked half asleep.

Dorr said softly, meditatively: "Holding out, huh?"

"Yes," I said grimly. "While I have it I'm fairly safe. You
overplayed your hand when you let me get my paws on it. I'd be a fool not to
hold what advantage it gives me."

Dorr said: "Safe?" with a gently sinister intonation.

I laughed. "Not safe from a frame," I said. "But the last one
didn't click so well . . . Not safe from being gun-walked again. But that's
going to be harder next time too . . . But fairly safe from being shot in the
back and having you sue my estate for the dough."

Dorr stroked the cat and looked at me under his eyebrows.

"Let's get a couple of more important things straightened out," I
said. "Who takes the rap for Lou Harger?"

"What makes you so sure you don't?" Dorr asked nastily.

"My alibi's been polished up. I didn't know how good it was until I knew
how close Lou's death could be timed. I'm clear now . . . regardless of who
turns in what gun with what fairy tale . . . And the lads that were sent to
scotch my alibi ran into some trouble."

Dorr said: "That so?" without any apparent emotion.

"A thug named Andrews and a Mexican calling himself Luis Cadena. I
daresay you've heard of them."

"I don't know such people," Dorr said sharply.

"Then it won't upset you to hear Andrews got very dead, and the law has
Cadena."

I leaned over and slipped my empty glass under my chair. Miss Glenn turned
her head towards me and spoke very gravely, as if it was very important to the
future of the race for me to believe what she said: "Of course-of course
Canales had Lou killed . . . At least, the men he sent after us killed
Lou."

I nodded politely. "What for? A packet of money they didn't get? They
wouldn't have killed him. They'd have brought him in, brought both of you in.
You arranged for that kill, and the taxi stunt was to sidetrack me, not to fool
Canales' boys."

She put her hand out quickly. Her eyes were shimmering. I went ahead.

"I wasn't very bright, but I didn't figure on anything so flossy. Who
the hell would? Canales had no motive to gun Lou, unless it got back the money
he had been gypped out of. Supposing he could know that quick he had been
gypped."

Dorr was licking his lips and quivering his chins and looking from one of us
to the other with his small tight eyes. Miss Glenn said drearily: "Lou knew
all about the play. He planned it with the croupier, Pina. Pina wanted some
getaway money, wanted to move on to Havana. Of course Canales would have got
wise, but not too soon, if I hadn't got noisy and tough. I got Lou killed-but
not the way you mean."

I dropped an inch of ash off a cigarette I had forgotten all about. "All
right," I said grimly. "Canales takes the rap . . . And I suppose you
two chiselers think that's all I care about . . . Where was Lou going to be when
Canales was supposed to find out he'd been gypped?"

"He was going to be gone," Miss Glenn said tonelessly. "A damn
long way off. And I was going to be gone with him."

I said: "Nerts! You seem to forget I know why Lou was killed."

Beasley sat up in his chair and moved his right hand rather delicately
towards his left shoulder. "This wise guy bother you, chief?"

Dorr said: "Not yet. Let him rant."

I moved so that I faced a little more towards Beasley. The sky had gone dark
outside and the sprinkler had been turned off. A damp feeling came slowly into
the room. Dorr opened a cedarwood box and put a long brown cigar in his mouth,
bit the end off with a dry snap of his false teeth. There was the harsh noise of
a match striking, then the slow, rather labored puffing of his breath in the
cigar.

He said slowly, through a cloud of smoke: "Let's forget all this and
make a deal about that money . . . Manny Tinnen hung himself in his cell this
afternoon."

Miss Glenn stood up suddenly, pushing her arms straight down at her sides.
Then she sank slowly down into the chair again, sat motionless. I said:
"Did he have any help?" Then I made a sudden, sharp movement-and
stopped.

Beasley jerked a swift glance at me, but I wasn't looking at Beasley. There
was a shadow outside one of the windows-a lighter shadow than the dark lawn and
darker trees. There was a hollow, bitter, coughing plop; a thin spray of whitish
smoke in the window.

Beasley jerked, rose halfway to his feet, then fell on his face with one arm
doubled under him.

Canales stepped through the windows, past Beasley's body, came three steps
further, and stood silent, with a long, black, small-calibered gun in his hand,
the larger tube of a silencer flaring from the end of it.

"Be very still," he said. "I am a fair shot-even with this
elephant gun."

His face was so white that it was almost luminous. His dark eyes were all
smoke-gray iris, without pupils.

"Sound carries well at night, out of open windows," he said
tonelessly.

Dorr put both his hands down on the desk and began to pat it. The black cat
put its body very low, drifted down over the end of the desk and went under a
chair. Miss Glenn turned her head towards Canales very slowly, as if some kind
of mechanism moved it.

Canales said: "Perhaps you have a buzzer on that desk. If the door of
the room opens, I shoot. It will give me a lot of pleasure to see blood come out
of your fat neck."

I moved the fingers of my right hand two inches on the arm of my chair. The
silenced gun swayed towards me and I stopped moving my fingers. Canales smiled
very briefly under his angular mustache.

"You are a smart dick," he said. "I thought I had you right.
But there are things about you I like."

I didn't say anything. Canales looked back at Dorr. He said very precisely:
"I have been bled by your organization for a long time. But this is
something else again. Last night I was cheated out of some money. But this is
trivial too. I am wanted for the murder of this Harger. A man named Cadena has
been made to confess that I hired him . . . That is just a little too much
fix."

Dorr swayed gently over his desk, put his elbows down hard on it, held his
face in his small hands and began to shake. His cigar was smoking on the floor.

Canales said: "I would like to get my money back, and I would like to
get clear of this rap-but most of all I would like you to say something-so I can
shoot you with your mouth open and see blood come out of it."

Beasley's body stirred on the carpet. His hands groped a little. Dorr's eyes
were agony trying not to look at him. Canales was rapt and blind in his act by
this time. I moved my fingers a little more on the arm of my chair. But I had a
long way to go.

Canales said: "Pina has talked to me. I saw to that. You killed Harger.
Because he was a secret witness against Manny Tinnen. The D.A. kept the secret,
and the dick here kept it. But Harger could not keep it himself. He told his
broad-and the broad told you . . So the killing was arranged, in a way to throw
suspicion with a motive on me. First on this dick, and if that wouldn't hold, on
me."

There was silence. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't get anything
out. I didn't think anybody but Canales would ever again say anything.

Canales said: "You fixed Pina to let Harger and his girl win my money.
It was not hard-because I don't play my wheels crooked."

Dorr had stopped shaking. His face lifted, stone-white, and turned towards
Canales, slowly, like the face of a man about to have an epileptic fit. Beasley
was up on one elbow. His eyes were almost shut but a gun was laboring upwards in
his hand.

Canales leaned forward and began to smile. His trigger finger whitened at the
exact moment Beasley's gun began to pulse and roar.

Canales arched his back until his body was a rigid curve. He fell stiffly
forward, hit the edge of the desk and slid along it to the floor, without
lifting his hands.

Beasley dropped his gun and fell down on his face again. His body got soft
and his fingers moved fitfully, then were still.

I got motion into my legs, stood up and went to kick Canales' gun under the
desk-senselessly. Doing this I saw that Canales had fired at least once, because
Frank Dorr had no right eye.

He sat still and quiet with his chin on his chest and a nice touch of
melancholy on the good side of his face.

The door of the room came open and the secretary with the nose-glasses slid
in pop-eyed. He staggered back against the door, closing it again. I could hear
his rapid breathing across the room.

He gasped: "Is-is anything wrong?"

I thought that very funny, even then. Then I realized that he might be
short-sighted and from where he stood Frank Dorr looked natural enough. The rest
of it could have been just routine to Dorr's help.

I said: "Yes-but we'll take care of it. Stay out of here."

He said: "Yes, sir," and went out again. That surprised me so much
that my mouth fell open. I went down the room and bent over the gray-haired
Beasley. He was unconscious, but had a fair pulse. He was bleeding from the
side, slowly.

Miss Glenn was standing up and looked almost as dopy as Canales had looked.
She was talking to me quickly, in a brittle, very distinct voice: "I didn't
know Lou was to be killed, but I couldn't have done anything about it anyway.
They burned me with a branding iron-just for a sample of what I'd get.
Look!"

I looked. She tore her dress down in front and there was a hideous burn on
her chest almost between her two breasts.

I said: "Okey, sister. That's nasty medicine. But we've got to have some
law here now and an ambulance for Beasley."

I pushed past her towards the telephone, shook her hand off my arm when she
grabbed at me. She went on talking to my back in a thin, desperate voice.

"I thought they'd just hold Lou out of the way until after the trial.
But they dragged him out of the cab and shot him without a word. Then the little
one drove the taxi into town and the big one brought me up into the hills to a
shack. Dorr was there. He told me how you had to be framed. He promised me the
money, if I went through with it, and torture till I died, if I let them
down."

It occurred to me that I was turning my back too much to people. I swung
around, got the telephone in my hands, still on the hook, and put my gun down on
the desk.

"Listen! Give me a break," she said wildly. "Dorr framed it
all with Pina, the croupier. Pina was one of the gang that got Shannon where
they could fix him. I didn't-"

I said: "Sure-that's all right. Take it easy."

The room, the whole house seemed very still, as if a lot of people were
hunched outside the door, listening.

"It wasn't a bad idea," I said, as if I had all the time in the
world. "Lou was just a white chip to Frank Dorr. The play he figured put us
both out as witnesses. But it was too elaborate, took in too many people. That
sort always blows up in your face."

"Lou was getting out of the state," she said, clutching at her
dress. "He was scared. He thought the roulette trick was some kind of a
pay-off to him."

I said: "Yeah," lifted the phone and asked for police headquarters.

The room door came open again then and the secretary barged in with a gun. A
uniformed chauffeur was behind him with another gun.

I said very loudly into the phone: "This is Frank Dorr's house. There's
been a killing .

The secretary and the chauffeur dodged out again. I heard running in the
hail. I clicked the phone, called the Telegram office and got Von Ballin. When I
got through giving him the flash Miss Glenn was gone out of the window into the
dark garden.

I didn't go after her. I didn't mind very much if she got away.

I tried to get Ohls, but they said he was still down at Solano. And by that
time the night was full of sirens.

I had a little trouble but not too much. Fenweather pulled too much weight.
Not all of the story came out, but enough so that the City Hall boys in the
two-hundred-dollar suits had their left elbows in front of their faces for some
time.

Pina was picked up in Salt Lake City. He broke and implicated four others of
Manny Tinnen's gang. Two of them were killed resisting arrest, the other two got
life without parole.

Miss Glenn made a clean getaway and was never heard of again. I think that's
about all, except that I had to turn the twenty-two grand over to the Public
Administrator. He allowed me two hundred dollars fee and nine dollars and twenty
cents mileage. Sometimes I wonder what he did with the rest of it.